Chapter 8

"Meet me in the pines tomorrow noon, Tim," said De Vere as he left him, wearing a worried look--almost one of fear.

Aside from these troubles, Matthew was far from happy. He had tried to learn the cause of Nellie's manner toward him the last time he saw her at school. He could not understand what had brought about the change in her.

He had not seen her for nearly a week, for she was at home sick. She took a severe cold on the night of the fire by exposure to the damp, chilly air, and had not been able to come out since. Matthew called at the doctor's to offer her his sympathy, but she would not see him. He learned from his sister, who had called every day that Nellie was up and around the house, and from this fact he argued that she shunned him.

Fred really expected no reply to his letter to Nellie, and yet he hoped almost against hope, as it seemed to him, that she might acknowledge its receipt in some way. If only a word, and that one of criticism, he felt that it would be much more welcome than nothing.

Little did he realize how near he came to receiving the coveted letter, for it was actually written, and was one that would have given him great pleasure.

Nellie wrote the letter in the evening before the fire, and intended mailing it the next morning; but when morning came she found herself too ill to leave the house.

Two days passed; then came the report of Fred's arrest. The news made her cheeks burn. She condemned herself for having written the letter, and while the shock was fresh upon her she destroyed it. And as it lay in the waste basket, torn into little pieces, she looked at it and felt almost sorry she had been so hasty; even wished, though she hardly dared acknowledge it to herself, that he had the letter, guilty or not.

She took his note from her pocket and read it again; then buried her face in her hands in deep thought.

She was interrupted by Grace Bernard, who ran in to spend a little time with her.

"Oh, isn't it good news?" she exclaimed, in her animated, girlish way.

"Isn't what good news?" asked Nellie curiously.

"Why, the result of the trial. Haven't you heard of it?"

"Has he been acquitted?" asked Nellie eagerly.

"Yes."

"No, I had not heard of the result," she replied, blushing as she realized the interest she had shown. "I only learned of the trial a few minutes ago."

"I am so glad he was proved innocent. I think it was shameful to bring such a charge against him," returned Grace.

"He has been unfortunate," replied Nellie, refraining from an expression of her own feelings.

"Yes, he has; but I do not believe any of the charges against him. Father said that Mr. Rexford was confused and embarrassed at the trial. It all came out about Fred's discharge and the missing money."

"Was it favorable to Fred?"

"Yes. Mr. Rexford had to retract his own testimony, and acknowledge that Fred was right."

"Did they learn anything about the missing money?"

"No; but father said there was no proof that Fred took it, and no good reason for thinking so. You know I told you when the report first started that I did not believe it."

"Yes, I know you did," replied Nellie, dropping her eyes, and thinking of the reference to the fact in Fred's letter to her.

"Dave told me a few days ago," continued Grace, "that Fred thought nearly all of his friends had turned against him, and that he felt terribly hurt about it. I know I have not turned against him, and I shall write and tell him so; then he will know he has one friend at least."

"He already knows it," said Nellie, in a slightly bitter tone.

"Why, how can that be, and what leads you to think so?" asked Grace, with surprise.

"I mean--probably he knows it. Dave might have told him," replied Nellie, with evident embarrassment at the fact she had unintentionally disclosed, and her inability to explain how she came by this information without making reference to Fred's letter to her.

Grace looked puzzled, and after a pause said:

"Yes, possibly he knows it, but I wish to be sure of it; and as I have no opportunity of seeing him now he is at work in the factory, I will write the letter and mail it to him. It can do no harm."

When Nellie had been left alone she could not resist referring once more to that part of Fred's letter that spoke of Grace's friendship. This, and the fact that she was intending to write him a friendly, encouraging letter, troubled Nellie. She was very glad that he had been found innocent, and that he had merited the praise of the judge, and yet she felt depressed that another should feel so happy over it. If only she had learned the news from some other source, or if Grace had shown some indifference, she would have been delighted.

Why this should trouble her she hardly knew, but that it did she was certain. She wondered if Grace would say anything about her in the letter she would write to Fred. "I am afraid she will," Nellie said to herself. "I wish I had shown more sympathy for him, and I wanted to so much. But why should she be so happy over his triumph? The idea of her writing to him to tell him of her friendship!"

These thoughts annoyed Nellie, and she felt--yes, we may as well confess it--a little jealous of her friend Grace.

XXII.

The next morning, as Fred was busy at his work, Carl came in from the post office, whither he had gone for the mail for several of the employees, and handed him two letters. On looking at them Fred was surprised to find both postmarked "Mapleton."

He tore one of them open nervously, hoping it might be the long looked for and much coveted answer to his own letter to Nellie Dutton. He looked at the signature--"Grace Bernard."

"What can this mean?" The thought shot through his mind, and then he proceeded to find out in a very sensible way, by reading the letter.

It was simply a friendly letter, that showed a refreshing sympathy for his misfortunes, and expressed a belief that he would in time triumph over all opposition.

The writer assured him of her belief in his innocence, and congratulated him upon his perfect vindication at the trial. She spoke of Nellie's sickness, and added that it would not be long before he would be more highly appreciated by his friends than ever.

This brief letter touched Fred deeply and brought tears of joy to his eyes. He felt so happy that he hesitated before opening the other letter, fearing it might cast a cloud over the sunshine this little note had brought him.

"And Nellie has been sick," he said to himself thoughtfully. "Perhaps this letter may be from her. I will open it and see."

It ran like this:

MAPLETON.

MY DEAR FRIEND:--Your letter, so unexpected, was a surprise to me, but I am very glad you sent it, otherwise we might not have understood each other as well as I now hope we may. It grieves me that you should feel so offended at my seeming lack of friendship. Perhaps the time may come when you will think differently. Had I received your letter two weeks ago, or had you then told me what you say you would have explained in confidence, you would probably have no cause now to complain of me.

Your letter, in some respects, is a puzzle to me. It has almost made me suspicious of a certain party, but I must wait and see what time will tell, then perhaps we shall find it agreeable to talk over the matter and be as friendly as ever. You may feel sure I was very glad of your success at the trial, and I hope, oh so much, that you will triumph over all your misfortunes. I should have answered your letter more promptly, but I have been, and still am, kept at home by a bad cold which I took the night of the fire.

With best wishes, sincerely your friend, NELLIE DUTTON.

Instead of throwing a shadow over our young friend's horizon, this letter swept away, for a time, the few remaining clouds, and made the sunshine so bright and cheering that he was happy indeed. He had been cast down so long by bitter misfortunes, that these expressions of friendship, and especially those of Miss Nellie, seemed to liberate his fettered spirits, and make them bound high with joy.

His work seemed nothing to him. The flockers lost their dusty, dingy appearance. The heavy rolls of cloth were but playthings in his hands. There was no friction, no irritation. Everything moved with the grace and charm of a well modeled yacht with swelling sails upon a rippling sea.

"She wishes so much that I may triumph over all my misfortunes," he said to himself, "and I can see now she almost suspects De Vere. I know she means him. I have been a fool to misjudge her so--and she is at home sick, poor girl!"

Here a sudden impulse seized him, and in a few moments he was at John Fielding's hot house and ordered a dollar's worth of choice cut flowers. He handed the florist the money and directed him to send them to Nellie Dutton with his card.

The old florist was startled--could hardly believe his own senses. Such an order to be received from a boy was unprecedented--nothing of the kind had ever been known in the village, and that Fred Worthington, now a factory boy, should be the one to lead off in this very commendable fashion--a fashion that is only really practised in the larger towns--seemed too much to realize.

Fred saw this plainly in the queer little old man's face, and he blushed deeply as he thought what he had done.

Whether the florist hoped to encourage this sort of trade by liberal dealing I cannot say, but that he sent some very choice flowers, and a large quantity for the money, is certain. It would be difficult to imagine a more surprised or delighted person than Nellie Dutton was when she opened the box and took from it the sweet smelling flowers, and a neatly written card bearing the name--"Fred Worthington."

If she was a little jealous of her friend Grace on the previous day, she now had no occasion to feel so. Her letter had brought a response that she little expected--a response, however, that made her quite as happy as Fred.

If she had, up to this time, held serious doubts as to his innocence, they were now dispelled. A little act will many times go far toward changing one's opinion, and there are few arguments more forcible with girls, and even ladies of mature age, than are choice flowers. This act of Fred, though seemingly absurd for a boy in his position, was a master stroke in his favor, for it not only won Nellie's friendship fully back, but it also created a very favorable impression upon her mother, who was scarcely less pleased with the flowers than Nellie herself.

XXIII.

When Fred had first entered the mill his attention was arrested by Jack Hickey--a witty, good natured Irishman. He was a quaint character, full of fun and humor. His employment was washing and scouring wool and shoddy--not a very genteel labor, for it was wet and dirty work, as well as tiresome. However, Jack received for such service $1.75 per day, and this made him happier than a $10,000 salary makes many a bank president.

Hickey was called by the boys the "Jolly Scourer"--not a bad appellation for him either. His tub and rinser were near the flockers. Fred could see and hear him while at his own work, and this furnished our young friend much amusement; for whenever Jack had pitched the wool about in the strong suds and was waiting for the action of steam upon it, he usually filled in the time by singing bits of original rhyme and by clog dancing.

His rhymes were as queer as himself, while his dancing was equally peculiar. He had been persistent in the practice of the latter art, no doubt; in fact, there was decided evidence of this, for in spite of the clumsy cowhides that he wore, his right foot showed much careful training. It was full of music and always on time. It could tap the floor with the ease and skill with which a practised drummer beats the resonant diaphragm. Moreover, it seemed to know all the steps of a professional dancer, while his left foot was a thorough clod, so far as this art went.

It always seemed to go just contrary to the other, and gave the appearance of attempting something more difficult than it was capable of performing. Indeed, this was almost the invariable result, as its accomplishments in this line were so exceedingly few; besides, it was always out of time, was clumsy and awkward, and was such a foot as is familiarly described among boys as "belonging to the church."

"It is very queer why there is such a difference in the action of that man's feet," remarked Fred to himself, with a suppressed titter; "but I think, after all, the clumsy one is the most natural, and does just about as I should expect a foot to do when incased in such an amount of leather and belonging to such a man as Jack. What I don't understand is, how the other one ever became so gamy."

Fred wondered if Jack was doing all that practice simply for his own pleasure, or if he was trying to fit himself for an engagement with some minstrel troupe. If for the latter purpose, there was some object in it; but if simply for fun, Fred could not see where it came in when he considered the immense amount of effort it must have taken to wield with such dexterity those great boots, whose legs reached far above the dancer's knee, and the soles of which were nearly an inch in thickness and contained a generous supply of iron slugs.

When Fred first witnessed Jack's comical performances, they amused him hugely, and he thought he had never before seen anything half so funny; even the annual circus, with its train of animals, and dancers, and tumblers and clowns, could not equal it. The "Jolly Scourer" was extremely comical and clownish, evidently without trying to be so, while the circus clown's _effort_ at comical acts and sayings detracts from the amusing effect of the acts themselves.

Jack was thoroughly original, and his originality in music, which accompanied these performances, added much to them; for, contrary to the custom of many small boys when practising clog dancing, instead of whistling Jack furnished his music by singing, in a rich brogue, bits of improvised rhyme that he seemed to compose for the occasion. Many of them were very funny, and possessed the originality and wit characteristic of his nationality, which added much to the whole performance.

Fred soon made the acquaintance of the "Jolly Scourer," and had many good laughs at his jokes, which often lightened the monotony of routine work. He moreover did our young hero many acts of kindness, and in a certain matter proved of great service to him.

Time passed by with Fred in his factory life not altogether unpleasantly, and as he saw no chance of getting into a store again very soon, he concluded that the best thing for him to do was to gain every point possible relative to woolen manufacture, and especially to the finishing department, in which he had commenced his mill career.

Consequently he bent his energies to this purpose. Whatever was to be learned by observation and by questioning he was fast finding out. When he first ventured out into the wet gig room, he saw there numerous machines, the working of which was a curiosity which he wished to have explained; and after carefully examining them he hastened back to the little humpback, where he felt confident he could get the desired information. Said he:

"Carl, what are those great tall machines in the second room beyond us, that have the large cylinders?"

"They are gigs--wet gigs."

"And what are they for?"

"They are to raise a nap on the cloth."

"How do they do that?"

"Well, that cylinder is covered with handles. You know what handles are, I s'pose?"

"I know something about some kind of handles, but I guess not of this kind."

"They are long iron frames about seven feet long, half an inch thick, and just wide enough to take in two teasels, one on top of the other so as to make two rows of them the whole length of the handle."

"And this iron frame filled with teasels is called a 'handle'?"

"Yes."

"But what are teasels?"

"They are the burrs of a plant something like a thistle. They are about the size of a small egg, only not quite so large around, and they do not taper so much, though one end is a little larger than the other. They have sharp points, sort of like hooks, which all turn down toward the stem, so you can run your hand over them one way and the points won't hurt; but if you pull your hand back they dig right to the flesh."

"Oh, I know now, I saw a lot of them up stairs the other day and wondered for what they were used here. Seems to me they are queer things to use on cloth. Wouldn't something like a card with iron tacks be better, and last longer?"

"No, I guess not. Probably anything like that would tear the cloth, and I believe all of the mills use teasels. You see they would use what is best."

"Yes, I suppose so," added Fred thoughtfully; "but tell me about the gig and how they use this little prickly thing."

"Well, as I said, these frames filled with teasels are called handles, and as the gig cylinders are covered all over with handles, it makes kind of a solid bed of teasels. The cylinder whirls one way, and the cloth, which is drawn close against it, goes the other."

"I should think the sharp points would dig into the cloth, and tear it the same as wire points would."

"You see the gig is going so fast they don't get hold much, and then they are not strong enough to tear it at once, but will wear it out rather fast if too much pressure is put upon it. Those gigs out there don't hurt it much, though, for they use old handles and the teasels are broken down a good deal."

"Where are they used first, if they are old?"

"Up stairs on the dry gigs."

"What! Is it gigged up there, too?"

"Oh, yes; on two different gigs. Haven't you seen the great square iron framed machines with two cylinders and two men tending them?"

"No, I think not. I don't believe I have been into that room yet."

"Well, the cloth is gigged there on the big machines the first thing after it leaves the fulling mills and washers."

"How long do they run it up there?"

"They run it quite a while in all the different processes it goes through. After it is gigged the first time then it is cropped."

"Cropped, you say?" exclaimed Fred, laughing. "Well, you have me again, for I am sure I don't know what that means."

"Why, it means sheared--cutting off the nap which the teasels dig up--only they don't call it 'sheared' the first two times."

"How many times is it sheared, I wonder!"

"'Bout four or five times, I think; twice on the cropper, and twice or three times on the finishing shears. As I said before, it is run on the big gig first and then is cropped. After this process is completed, it runs on another dry gig of the same shape as the wet ones, and is cropped again. Then it is placed on to the wet gigs where you saw it."

"I should think it would be all worn out if it is run so long against those sharp teasels, besides having the nap sheared off several times. How long do they keep it on the gigs?"

"It does get spoiled sometimes; I have seen plenty of pieces with the face of the cloth all gigged through. It tears the filling all out and leaves the warp. The cloth runs on each gig till a good nap is worked up."

"That would be a good many hours in all, I suppose, but I don't see the use of gigging it so much as to spoil the cloth. It won't wear very well, will it?"

"Yes, but they gig it so as to get an extra fine finish, and make it smooth and handsome. And then there are what they call the steam gigs. It is run on them, and besides this it is gigged several times on the back, both on dry and wet gigs."

"What! Is there still another kind of gig?" asked Fred, beginning to get incredulous.

"No, they are just the same as the ones you saw, only they run the cloth through them after it is steamed, so the boys call them the 'steam gigs.'"

XXIV.

"Are the steam gigs wet ones, too?" asked Fred.

"Yes, and they use the oldest handles of any, because this is the last time the cloth is gigged, and it won't stand much scraping. After it leaves these gigs it goes to the drier, and then goes back up stairs."

"When it goes back up there, I suppose it goes through a dozen or two more processes, does it not?"

"Well, it goes through quite a number. I believe it is sheared the first thing, and then it has to be brushed and sheared again."

"What kind of a thing is a shear, any way, such as is used for shearing the nap from cloth? I can't imagine how it works, though I have often wished to see it in operation."

"I don't believe I can tell you so you will understand it. You had better go up and see for yourself."

"You can give me an idea about it. I don't want to go up there now without showing some better reason than curiosity. Mr. Farrington might think it queer, and get an idea that I am neglecting my work, as he said Tim Short did."

"All right, then; I'll tell you the best I can. I used to think myself, when I heard father talking about the shears, that they must be something like mother's shears, only with great long blades; but I found I was mistaken. The shears up stairs are about seven feet long; you see they have to be as long as the cloth is wide. They have iron frames, and I guess are five feet high. There is a roller on the back side and another on the front. On the top and front of the machine is a steel plate which runs the whole length of the shear. This plate has a square edge, and the cloth passes over it from one roller to the other. It is drawn tight when it goes over the steel plate, and there is what I believe they call a cylinder that has sharp knives upon it. They call them knives, but they are like strips of sharp steel fastened on to the cylinder. They are 'bout half an inch high, and run the whole length of the cylinder in a spiral way, just the same as I would wind a string round this stick from bottom to top, if every time the string went round it was an inch from where it went round before.

"Well, you see--these strips of steel go round like that, only they are a good deal straighter and are 'bout two inches apart. They call these strips the knives and grind them just like any other shears. The way they do this is by running the cylinder the wrong way and holding a piece of stone against them. This gives them a sharp edge. This cylinder is let down so close to the steel plate that there isn't room for the cloth to pass between it and the cylinder without having the face or nap sheared off by the sharp knives of the cylinder that is going round like lightning. That's 'bout all there is to it. Do you get any idea how it works?"

"Oh, yes; I think I see how it is. As the cloth passes over the plate one way, the cylinder whirls the other and clips off the nap. I understand now why a knot in the back of the cloth would do so much harm. As it passes over the plate 'twould raise the cloth up so as to cut a hole in the face of it; but when you told me about it the other day I thought a little thing like that didn't amount to much."

"Yes, that's right," responded Carl, with a pleased look on finding his explanation had proved successful. "I have told you a little about nearly all the processes of finishing cloth. I may as well tell the rest. Oh, I forgot to tell you how the cloth is brushed. Well, it is done by machinery. The brush itself is a roller about six inches through, and the same length as the shear cylinder. The bristles are put into the roller all over it, so it is just like any brush, only round. The cloth runs on the brushing machine about the same as on the shear, and the brush that is let down on to the cloth revolves with an awful speed--so fast that it appears to be like a smooth piece of iron or wood. I tell you it takes the dust out and straightens out the nap in good shape."